45 Things
by treesofsilverleaves
Summary: 45 things a girl wants, but won't ask for. The Amazing Spider-Man movie-verse, after the first movie but so far ignoring the second, series of out-of-order drabbles about Peter and Roseanne.
1. touch her waist

_Touch her waist._

It's a muggy day in the city and the air conditioning is broken. All the windows are open, and Roseanne stands, in a pair of shorts and a bikini top, with her face directly in front of the fan. It doesn't do much, just circulates the hot, dry air in the room, but it's better than nothing.

Roseanne jumps, a sudden patch of excess heat appearing against her waist. It's Peter's hand, gently steering her away from the fan and towards the door.

She expects to be irrationally angry, considering how awfully warm it is, but somehow the hand against her waist is soothing, giving off a strangely cool relief even though it is just as flushed with heat and damp with sweat as she is. She relishes it. "Where are we going?"

He chuckles, handing her a red-paint-spattered tank top he must have stolen from her room. She pulls it on. "I think a day in a nice air-conditioned museum is in order," he says. Roseanne smiles.

Even when he removes the hand, his touch lingers on her waist, a puzzling, delightful mix of hot and cold.


	2. actually talk to her

_Actually talk to her._

There were many times where silence reigned between them. More often than not, it was a comfortable, content sort of quiet. Rarely was the air filled with an awkward lack of words, and even then it was usually more adorably than painfully so.

Silence isn't everything, though.

After an hour or so of painting with the weight of empty air pressing on her shoulders, Roseanne had enough. A little tune makes its way into her head, then travels to her lips. She hums along with the notes in her head, but it just doesn't quell the emptiness stirring against her.

"So why two different colors in the sky?"

Roseanne looks between Peter and the painting that has been blossoming beneath her brush. Two people walk down the same road, both wearing smiles, their eyes hidden by the shadows of their bent heads. Over the one on the right, there is a pale blue sky, wispy clouds floating here and there, and a small sun shining in the corner. In the left, the sky blends into a deep red, bright and dark as fresh blood, with only a myriad of stars to light the way. The street is similarly split, the lights and shadows reflecting the alternate brightness and darkness of the sky above. The figures' linked hands are positioned right on the dividing line.

"I suppose," she chooses her words carefully, "because even when things are at their worst, and it is the hardest thing to do . . . you have to smile and find the light in the dark."

He nods, thoughtfully, seriously. They discuss the meaning behind art and actions for quite some time.

Silence can be nice, but it is certainly not everything.


	3. share secrets with her

_Share secrets with her._

There is a knock on the window. It's not a strange thing to hear anymore. Peter's been coming in through the window more often than not in the last few days. He's usually got some new bruise or scrape she insists on tending since he doesn't do it himself, and he lets her, slumping tiredly against the windowsill. She put a first aid kit under her bed after the very first night, and pulls it out now. There is a long, jagged line down his chin, not deep enough to scar, but still needing to be cleaned.

Roseanne pushes him onto the bed and unpacks the necessary supplies. Soothing him with a kiss to the brow when he winces, she dabs a wet cloth onto the cut. It is not until a large band aid is gently pressed across the wound does she realize his shirt is stained with blood.

"Peter," she gasps, hand stretching towards the hem of his shirt. He catches her wrist. She looks confused, frightened. He could be injured even worse and he's stopping her!

"Before you do that," he says haltingly, "I need to tell you something."

"What is it?" she asks, aware that he hasn't let go of her arm. Roseanne raises it so she can brush her lips against the fingers closed around it. His knuckles are bruised. "Tell me."

"...I'm Spider-Man," he admits, dropping her hand. A quick tug at his shirt reveals the red and blue material of the costume, torn and dark with fluid. She gapes at him.

But he's bleeding, or he was - either way he needs her help. She doesn't say anything as she sets about peeling the suit away from his chest, cleaning the wound, and wrapping it. Then she puts her arms around him and leans her forehead against his. It's more intimate and conveying of her feelings than a kiss could hope to be, even if she did quite like kissing him.

"Thank you for telling me," she whispers. _Thank you for saving me_ goes unsaid, but she's already thanked Spider-Man for that.


	4. give her your jacket

_Give her your jacket._

"Stupid weather channel."

"Don't be grumpy. The weatherman said it was going to be cold today."

"No, the weatherman said what temperature it was going to be, not what that would feel like! Back in my hometown, this would be the perfect time to forgo sleeves - heck, I'd be wearing shorts!"

Roseanne shivers and wraps her arms around herself. When checking the forecast that morning, she hadn't taken into account the chill of the wind as it whirled around the corners and down the streets. Now she's suffering for it. The wind bites against her arms, wrapping itself around her and raising goosebumps on her flesh. At least she's wearing jeans.

Peter stifles a laugh, which she glares at him for. _He's_ certainly comfortable in his sleeves. Peter had lived in New York his whole life, but that wasn't even the reason. He always wears sleeves, from what Roseanne can tell. She wonders if he will discard them come summer.

"If you so much as chuckle at my pain, I will rip your head off," she threatens falsely. He chuckles. "Oh, that's it!"

She dives at him, tackling him - although his body is strangely solid and barely stumbles when she slams into him - and punches him lightly. This has no effect on his chuckles, she realizes, stopping. Then she pouts up at him.

He grins down at her, but something flickers in his eyes as another shiver makes her shake the slightest bit. It's like he can feel it, which is strange considering how small a movement it was. Peter shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders.

There is a moment of shock. He cocks an eyebrow at her, so she shakes her head of cobwebs and pulls it tighter around her, relishing the warmth. Roseanne smiles and entwines her fingers in his as they continue walking the streets. Peter smiles back.

The warmth of his jacket seeps into her heart.


	5. kiss her slowly

_Kiss her slowly._

Peter trudges up the steps of his porch, tired and sore. His aunt is probably waiting up again, worried sick. As usual. He hates doing this to her, but he has to - he has the power to help so many people, to do what the police can't. With great power comes great responsibility - his uncle would have approved of such a mindset.

Uncle Ben. Peter really misses him, and of course so does Aunt May. He feels guilty for taking her husband away from her, because it is his fault Ben Parker died. Shot by a petty criminal Peter could have stopped if he hadn't been so selfish.

With great power comes great responsibility.

"Peter?"

The voice hardly startles him. With his enhanced senses, he knew she was there, sitting in the shadows, the moment he lifted his foot to the first stair. It's Roseanne.

"Yes?" He is tired, really tired, but for some reason he can't just excuse himself before hearing what she has to say.

"Where do you go?" she asks, exactly what Aunt May had asked him time and time again with worry and fear. But this sounds infinitely more timid and childish, and yet not. She leans across the railing that separates their porches, looks at him, all pale blonde and bright blue hair and worried, curious eyes in the dim light from the street lamps and houses.

He looks back for a moment, then slowly shakes his head.

The expression on her face tells him she had been expecting that, but is still disappointed. "Alright," she says after a moment. "I know your aunt's been really worried, so I called her up and told her you've been doing homework with me the past few days and forgot to tell her. I explained to her that the skateboarding accidents were you attempting to teach me."

"Roseanne," he says, thinking about the relief his aunt must have felt, and the relief he feels to have a legitimate excuse for his absences, "I could kiss you!"

She nods, quiet, thoughtful. "What's stopping you?" she asks. For a moment, Peter is dumbstruck. Then he's leaning down, and she's reaching up on her tiptoes. Their lips meet.

It is a slow kiss, tentative and unsure, but also sweet and deliciously warm. This is before a first date, before a relationship, but maybe this is why he was so reluctant to dismiss her even though he was bone tired. He hadn't even realized, but she was on his mind often, and this kiss is too long in coming.

They break apart after what had either been an eternity or a millisecond. Roseanne steadies herself on the railing, breathing deeply. She touches her lips with a finger, then smiles. Peter smiles nervously.

"Do you, ah, want to do - something? Sometime?"

"Yeah," she replies, somewhat dazedly. He feels a little bit proud that he caused that - that and the tint of red gracing her cheeks, barely noticeable in the darkness. "Something. Yeah. That - that sounds great."

There is a pause. "Well, I should get in, just in case Aunt May decided to wait up again," he says, scratching the back of his neck.

"Oh," she says, "oh yeah. Tell her I said hello . . . goodnight, Peter."

"Goodnight."

A good night indeed.


End file.
